Classics for Dummies
by Isabelle
Summary: Since his father was hardly ever around, Cary Grant taught him how to stand and talk, Humphrey Bogart taught him how to smoke and be worldly, and Marlon Brando taught him how to smirk. Chuck/Blair.


**Title: Classics for Dummies**

Author: Isabelle

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Anything S2 aired, set after 2.16

Summary: Since his father was hardly ever around, Cary Grant taught him how to stand and talk, Humphrey Bogart taught him how to smoke and be worldly, and Marlon Brando taught him how to smirk. Chuck/Blair.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gossip Girl nor do I claim to.

AN – After talking about CB and how classic they are, and Ed's comment along the same lines, I decided to write a one-shot of what CB would be like if they were in a black and white film. Hence the style of dialogue.

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"_She was worth a stare."  
__Humphrey Bogart – The Big Sleep_

Chuck Bass thinks to himself that he'll stop being an asshole.

"One day at a time," he assures Nathaniel. He begins with Sundays. Naturally, Sundays are a good day. He hardly ever sees Humphrey, usually spends time with Eric, and almost always gets a peek at Blair Waldorf.

She loves skirts on Sunday, like a church girl – the type you marry.

He remembers that when they were young, she would make them all watch black and white films. Nathaniel usually got out of it and Serena usually only made it halfway through the film before the random flavor of the week called her away, so it was usually just him and Blair. Since his father was hardly ever around, Cary Grant taught him how to stand and talk, Humphrey Bogart taught him how to smoke and be worldly, and Marlon Brando taught him how to smirk.

She never did notice, of course. And he never did it for her. He just needed someone to emulate. Chuck Bass was a great emulator.

"Why scotch, Chuck?" She asked him, age thirteen.

"Why not?" He replied, and it was smooth enough to shut her up and make her back rigid. He enjoyed making that back rigid, because he knew she was pure fire underneath all that posture.

He sees her in a black Valentino gown three weeks after the elevator incident. He likes to call it an incident because that's what it was. He watches her all night, and it infuriates her to no end. He wonders how long it'll take for her to slap him. He could use a good slap.

"Never took you for a brooder," she greets, coming up behind him, champagne in hand. In _his_ fantasy, it'd be whiskey. But she never likes to mold, that one.

"Never took you for a drinker," he replies, and now he's lighting up his cigarette because it's what Bogart would've done. She notices too. He sees the slight flicker in her eyes, but she hides it well. He thinks Hepburn taught _her_ well.

She sulks a bit, then turns to the dance floor.

"Want to dance? I hear you're a great dancer," he smirks, and her eyes narrow.

"Don't flatter yourself, Chuck Bass," she snaps. "I didn't come for a cheap dance."

"Pity."

"Pity?" She nearly gasps, but remembers her composure.

"Yeah. Never took you for cheap," he says and quickly exists. He thinks she likes it better that way. Leave her hanging; leave her heaving. It's good for her. The day is Saturday, and he's got forty-five minutes before he turns asshole off.

The next time their paths cross, she looks quite the librarian and his fantasies go on overdrive. He would take her on a desk, on a chair, on a shelf. He would take her here and there; he would take her anywhere.

"Never took you for a poet," she quips, eyeing the books he's been foolish enough to be caught with. Neruda is underrated, in his opinion.

"Never took you for observant," he counters.

"Are we done playing snappy games?" She smirks.

"Then what would we do for fun? Play arcade?" He returns her smirk. He taught her that smirk.

She walks away. He lets her have the last word. And by last word, he means the movement of her hips, because she knows he's watching.

He would take her anywhere.

She refuses to leave his life – he sees her everywhere, and she catches him doing things he would rather she not see. Like playing Wii with Eric.

"Chuck Bass," she exclaims, and now she's leaning on the doorframe. Her silhouette is stunning. He's willing to bet she's practiced that move. "Sleeves rolled, tie missing, shoes tossed – you look quite the Sam."

"Oh, you know I'm not a _Sam_," he bites back. Wii forgotten.

"I'm leaving." Eric looks like he could find an exit out of Alcatraz. He can appreciate that.

"Maybe I'd like you better as a Sam. Ever think about that?" Her voice is low and throaty, very Mae West of her.

He saunters to her. She smells like silk. If silk had a smell, it would smell like Blair Waldorf.

"Oh, you wouldn't want a Sam. Sam would bore you to tears," he counters.

"Maybe I could use a Sam in my life. Give me stability." Her eyes are coy, but her voice is strong. He could kiss her like this. He thinks if she asked for his kingdom, he would give it to her.

"Oh…" He rounds her, wanting to study her. She's precious like that. "But would a Sam want you?"

Her face falters. "He would –"

"No he wouldn't, and I'll tell you why," he begins, and her lashes tremble slightly. He places his hands on either side of her face. Yes, she definitely smells of silk. "Because he couldn't control you, and the truth is that you like to be controlled. Not all the time, but just enough. Just every once in a while. It does you good. Keeps you in check, makes you shine."

She's swallowing now, and her eyes are wide.

"You don't know the first thing about me, Chuck Bass," she snaps.

He smirks. "Perhaps. Perhaps. But I certainly know the last."

"And what's that?" She arches a brow. Perfect brow.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," he smiles.

"What happens tomorrow?" She's skeptical, and he likes it.

"I'm taking you out," he says, perhaps all too cockily, but she likes it. Reminds her of a movie.

"I wouldn't go down a street corner with you," she jeers, and she means it.

"Good thing we're not going there then." He brushes past her. He wonders what he smells like to her. "Seven o'clock."

She's ready at six forty-five, just as he saunters through her elevator. He's going to give new meaning to that elevator. It's his goal and Chuck Bass doesn't fail.

She wears pink and smells sweet. He might unwrap her. Later.

"I have plans later," she informs him as the door to the limo closes behind them and she's fixing her hair.

"Good, so do I." He arches a brow.

"So you've got to make it short." Her chin is jutting out. He wonders if she's silky as always.

"I like to take my time," he drawls. The limo begins to move.

"I'm in a hurry." She's angry. He loves it.

"Always are," he smirks. Looks her up and down and expects her to hit him. He's almost disappointed when she doesn't.

"Where are we going?" Her face is pink. He wonders if her breasts blush, too. He quickly remembers that indeed they do.

"For a ride."

"What's the point?"

"For old time's sake."

"I'm moving on from old times. I find that, though they're quite lovely, they lead nowhere," she remarks and eyes him doubtfully.

He grabs her hand and pulls her against him. She struggles for a minute, but then settles. Their faces are close, and she sure does feels like silk.

"Let go of me." She's calm, but her eyes give her away.

"Why?" He says softly, softer than he intended. Bogart would be ashamed.

"Because you're a bastard," she replies.

"Maybe."

"Surely –"

"Shut up," he commands, and she's quiet. Her eyes are wide and her hands are fisted. Her lips part ever so slightly. So he kisses her. Kisses her the way that makes her melt against him. He realizes he could use a bit of melting himself. He's been too frozen lately.

He pulls back and watches her, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, breath unsteady. He knows something he will tell her some years from now. He doesn't want to scare her.

"Why…" She's whispering and her eyes are fluttering. She's holding back tears.

"Because I wanted to… Because you've earned it… And because I love you," he whispers.

Spoken like the cinema. He knows she'll replay it over and over again in her mental movie. He's happy to contribute.

"For all three reasons?" And now she's coy and smiling slightly.

"Maybe one more," he smirks and kisses her again. When they pull back, she's just as mystified, and he's sure he's sporting the same look. He can almost see Grant shaking his head slightly.

"What is it?" She asks, her spurts of air hot against his face. He likes it. He downright loves it.

"I'll tell you later," he comments.

"Oh."

He tucks her head under his chin. He likes it there. Her small hand grab onto his shirt.

"I'll take you home," he says quietly. "I know you have plans."

She smiles. "I lied."

He kisses her again. "So did I."

When he pulls back, it's him that's breathless, and she's the one smiling. "You're going to marry me, aren't you?"

She knows it. She tastes it on his lips. He never could keep a secret from her. Not for long, anyway. She's sucked it right out of him.

"Someday. I like to take my time," he answers.

"I don't." She smiles.

"Good thing I keep you in check, then," he ventures.

Her lips are cherry pink. Taste like it, too.

"Good thing you're not a Sam."

Yeah. Good thing. Otherwise, they wouldn't be such avid fans of the limo.

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End.

A/N - I may do a companion to this one, I'm in the film noir stage. Special thanks to Tati who always is an awesome beta!


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